Damien reveled in his happiness for over 40 days, relishing in the success of his mission. Mimi, emaciated and skeletal, lay on a field bed, her weakened body reeking of infection. Damien could smell the putrid odor permeating the air, a constant reminder of her deteriorating state. As he gazed upon her, he knew that their twisted game couldn't continue much longer, and the satisfaction he derived from her suffering was immeasurable.
Damien relished his invincibility in his newfound strength, basking in knowing that his actions had rendered the once-mighty Mimi weak, broken, and bewildered. Occasionally, he tapped into Damon's telepathy, discovering Mimi's desperate attempt to separate Damon from him. She was trying to convince herself that he was like Jekyll and Hyde. Her beloved Damon was unaware of anything that had happened in the shed these past six weeks.
While he contemplated his next move, the sheer power he possessed and the sheer terror that consumed her eyes during his torment were too tantalizing to relinquish his anonymity just yet. He remained resolute in his decision to remain hidden, skillfully evoking Damon's scent over the years, though it was always a precarious gamble. However, now he reveled in the complete pleasure he derived from his actions.
With meticulous planning, Damien had adorned Mimi's body with ingenious contraptions, each device meticulously destroying, stressing her body, spending her strength, and then infusing into her every bag of his little liquid. Soon, he would reveal to Mimi that Damon alone had been her torturer for the past six weeks, the most exhilarating six weeks of his life.
Only time would tell what they would do next. But then, it was only as if it was time for phase two. He started walking towards Mimi. It was time to show the victim how poorly she would be, and this first series of experiments was now complete. This would be really icing on the cake, so to speak. Damien prepared himself.
I lay on a worn, uncomfortable pallet, the frayed fabric scratching against my skin. Wracked with pain and agony, every movement sent waves of discomfort through my body. Exhaustion weighed heavy on my limbs, leaving me drained and depleted.
The air in the room was stale, a musty odor lingering, as if this place had once been a forgotten cellar. Harsh, unyielding light from overhead bulbs illuminated the ceiling, casting an eerie glow. The scent of my blood and infection hung thick in the air, mingling with the awful stench of the medical instruments.
My breathing was weak and labored, each inhale a struggle. My skin felt icy to the touch, a stark contrast to the feverish heat burning within me. Damon approached, dressed in his clinical scrubs, his expression devoid of any compassion or empathy. His eyes, cold and calculating, held a dehumanizing gaze, reducing me to nothing more than a piece of meat.
This shed, once a place of nightmares, now felt like the embodiment of my own personal hell. Damon's touch, once comforting, now sent a chill down my spine, causing me to sigh wearily. He lifted his hand, brushing my hair away from my forehead, a gesture that now repulsed me. I didn't want him to touch me anymore.
Locking eyes with me, Damon took my hand, pale, limp, and cold. His fingers briefly rested on my pulse before he lightly scratched my skin with his fingernail, the sensation sending shivers down my spine.
In a sinister tone, he whispered, "Do you understand why you're utterly finished, feeling sick, completely drained, and powerless, limp, and almost lifeless? Allow me to show you."
With a sudden force, he pressed down on my stomach, a sharp ripple of pain coursing through my entire being, when he released his grip. I gasped, the pain tearing through my body like a merciless storm.
He continued, his voice filled with a sinister undertone, "Did you feel that? As a doctor, you know the implications. It's rebound pain, a sharp, stabbing sensation that echoes through your body, a symptom of peritonitis. And when I tasted your blood, I could tell it was already infected. A putrid scent of decay lingering in the air, teeming with a nasty bacterial bug. Your own gut has betrayed you, leaking germs into your bloodstream. Your condition is dire, your gut ravaged, the walls of your stomach trembling with pain. Weight loss has left you frail, your body devoid of the reserves needed to fight this relentless bug; it already has the upper hand. Though you lack a fever, sepsis looms like a dark shadow, ready to consume you. Your breathing is labored, each breath a struggle, the sound of wheezing filling the room. See, your fingernails are bluish, a stark contrast to your pale skin, a visual reminder of the lack of oxygen in your body. You shiver uncontrollably, your body trembling with cold, the chill seeping into your bones. I have not given you a single drop of caffeine in these 46 days, so there is that, too. Frankly, given your current state, I don't know how you'll escape this predicament. I must admit, a twisted satisfaction courses through me. Six weeks, my baby, six damn remarkable weeks of torment. It's time to call it a day. And baby, I have plenty of toys left for our next encounter. I must confess, you have been the best victim so far. The fear in your eyes, the despair in your voice, it's truly exhilarating. You see, my normal victims will expire after one or maybe two rounds in my little toys, but this has been so great that you can't ever understand this feeling. But baby, in the future, remember this shed, its damp walls and lingering scent of decay. If you ever get your hands on Sark or Krycheck, remember what I can do. It would be my pleasure and honor to dispatch both of them in one of my sheds."
Damon caressed me, his touch sending shivers down my spine, his gaze fixed upon me as he uttered, his voice a haunting melody, "Well, my baby, isn't it unfortunate? You are feelin' poorly, right? But don't worry, I'll offer some respite. Not a cure, mind you, but a brief calm." He lifted my upper body against him, allowing me to hear his steady heartbeat, the rhythmic thump providing a twisted sense of comfort, the scent of passionfruit filling the air, its sweet and tangy aroma mingling with the heaviness of fear.
In that moment, any glimmer of hope I held onto, that Damon was unaware of this dark side, shattered. Yet, his hand continued to stroke, his touch both soothing and chilling, his heartbeat resounding in my ears, a constant reminder of the darkness that enveloped us, and the fragrance of passionfruit lingering, a bittersweet reminder of the twisted love he held for his sadistic games.
Suddenly, he released me, dropping me with such force that I couldn't help but cry out in pain. Damon regarded me with a dehumanizing gaze before proceeding to wash his hands as if I had somehow tainted him.
I had noticed with a mix of confusion and disgust that Damon had developed an intense aversion towards any bodily fluids that would emanate from me. It was peculiar, considering that Damon usually had a strong stomach for blood, urine, and feces. However, things had changed. He now always donned protective gear, even on top of his already protective scrubs. Thick, long-sleeved gloves adorned his hands. I couldn't help but tremble uncontrollably, deeply unsettled by his actions, and wanting to distance myself from Damon for the foreseeable future. As I gazed at him, a twisted sense of delight played across his face, as if he had anticipated and desired this reaction from me.
Damon proceeded to approach his computer, retrieving a dictation machine. His voice rang out, "The study has reached its endpoint. The subject has experienced weight loss, estimated at 31 kilos. Additionally, the subject is suffering from peritonitis and sepsis. There is no sign of fever, but the subject is hypothermic. Astonishingly, the subject's remarkable healing ability has ceased entirely. It will be intriguing to witness the duration of the subject's recovery from this state. Although I have other plans, I can gather further information from the subject's records on the pack's computer. The study is now concluded. Today marks day 46, with a total of 125 infusions administered to the target. Only time will reveal the consequences of these infusions. As for the next evaluation and its focus, I am unable to predict at this moment. The subject's skin is marred by open wounds and infections. They appear exhausted, feeble, sickly, and fragile. If it were any other creature, it would have succumbed by now. The subject's recuperation will necessitate intensive care. However, in my absence, the effectiveness and usage of antibiotics for the specific pathogen in question remain uncertain. To curb my desire to heal, I strive to distance myself once I have delivered the subject to one of the pack houses."
Damon glanced in my direction, placing the dictation machine on the table before approaching my side. He observed me for a moment before stating, "Alright. I will begin assembling the necessary materials so we can proceed."
He rose from his seat and disappeared somewhere, leaving me lying on the rough pallet. The stench of sepsis and peritonitis hung heavy in the air. As the doctor within me assessed my condition, a sense of unease washed over me. The uncertainty of my recovery from sepsis lingered, and doubts crept in about whether I had even experienced it in the first place.
Suddenly, Damon reappeared, clad in protective gear. He roughly enveloped me in a coarse, musty blanket and carried me, fully swathed, to the car. Tossed into the back seat, the seats folded down, creating an uncomfortable, unyielding surface. The engine roared to life, and we sped away, the passage of time becoming inconsequential in my pain-ridden state.
Helpless and confined within the confines of the smelly, abrasive blanket, I tumbled about in the car as it swerved, slowed down, and accelerated once more. Occasionally, I could hear the blinkers signaling our turns. The surroundings blurred, insignificant compared to the all-encompassing ache and discomfort that consumed me.
Eventually, the car came to a halt, and Damon hoisted me over his shoulder as if I were a mere object, devoid of life. He carried me into a house in Idaho, depositing me on the couch downstairs.
Squatting beside me, he uttered callously, "Oh baby, now I can indulge myself. I feel exhilarated. We'll repeat this experience someday. There are still so many toys left to play with, but make sure you're fit enough for me to abduct you again when I desire. Oh, what a sensation. What a thrill!"
Once again, he brushed my forehead, treating me like a piece of meat. I couldn't shake off the feeling of perpetually smelling like a wet dog and an ashtray. His touch left a greasy residue on my skin, branding me in a way I wished to forget. Lying motionless on the couch, I heard the door open and the car pull away. At that moment, I had no inkling of how I would escape this nightmare or who would come to my aid.